From barge and canal on the rim of the town,
Where watermen weathered the cold,
A lad with a brush chased the prize and renown,
With colours defiant and bold.
With blues in his fingers and spark in his mood,
He traded the easel for sound,
And into the tempest stepped young Ronnie Wood,
Wherever wild music was found.

Through Beck and the Faces he swaggered along,
With laughter and wine on the floor;
His temper was lightning, impulsive and strong,
A spirit that clamoured for more.

Then came the dark tongue and the call to the stage,
Where rhythms were ready to ignite;
He stepped to the frontline and welcomed the age,
A flare in the stadium night.
Alongside Mick Jagger he matched every stride,
Two currents that twisted and ran;
The singer who ruled with a disciplined pride,
The rogue with a brush in his hand.

They traded sharp glances and banter of style,
As spotlights would shatter the dark;
A brotherhood forged in a song and a smile,
Igniting a permanent spark.
The paint never dried on the palette he kept,
Though bass-lines would rattle the floor;
Through trials and triumphs while lesser men slept,
He always came back for one more.

A gypsy of rhythm, an artist in tone,
Who never let passions depart;
With stroke of a brush and the strike of a Stone,
And rock’n’roll deep in his heart.