Thoughts on a Fallen Italian Chap, or, Who Ate All the Linguine?

Upon lighting my pipe early this morn, long before the chimbley sweeps scoured our fair stone avenues with their soot-stained jowls, I did fondly recall our fallen lad - Paul "The Italian".

As I fondly think of adventures past accompanied by our boot-dwelling mate, my fantastically curled mustache can't help but tremble with despair, as it swells with the memory of the Italian Mambo's leg succumbing to enemy forces like a string of cooked macaroni; his effete cries of woe so piercing that methinks all the young babes of England won't soon forget it.

Tonight, I will wet my lips with tannin from the finest Italian aged grapes in memory of our demised fellow from the south, hoping that his spirit will live on inside of all of our forceful mutton chops and his that memory can will the proud Loyalists to victory.

Here, here!

In Memory Paul "The Italian". Loyalist to the death, lover of fine herbs and spices