Faces of Strummer that fell from your wall
And was left were they hung
So sweet and bitter, they’re what we found
So drink them down and
Walk out to winter, swear I’ll be there.
Chill will wake you, high and dry
You’ll wonder why.
Walk out to winter, swear I’ll be there.
Chance is buried just below the blinding snow…

© Aztec Camera/Roddy Frame