Songwriter, Author & Master Coach
Helping people to write their own tickets to success...

Dee Shipman  Dee Shipman  Dee Shipman

"Every song I have translated is well translated, the one who works on the very difficult songs with me is Dee Shipman. I know her telephone number by heart, and her fax. It goes back and forth - 'No! I don't like this word!' And she comes back and says 'Because you don't understand English!' So I have to convince her and she has to convince me, and the rapport is fantastic." 

- Charles Aznavour

My Son
(Dee Shipman / Charles Aznavour)


Each of the many paths you trod 
Was but the primrose path to hell 
My son 
We’ve seen how eagerly you fell 
From fam’ly honour and tradition 

Your entourage who call you God 
Are low-life cheats who mock and steal 
My son 
Their vulgar kind stormed the Bastille 
With howls of ignorant derision 

You are the worthly child of kings 
With blue blood flowing in each vein 
My son 
You must assume your rank again 
Your name of glory and distinction 

Your mother weeps , and prays, and clings 
To her religion all the time 
My son 
While I fear our ancestral line 
Is now in danger of extinction 


Remind yourself that party lights 
Fade like the seasons in their turn 
My son 
And this bohemian life you yearn 
For, is unworthy of your status 


Between what’s wrong and what is right 
You see no diff’rence for your sins 
My son 
If vice and virtue are but twins 
Then we must fear for what your fate is 


Henri it’s time that you saw sense 
The fancy-dress parade has gone 
My son 
Forget the past and please come home 
Let God once more hear your confessions 


Henri it’s time for recompense 
The bitter lesson must be learned 
My son 
Now I command you to return 
And we’ll forgive your indiscretions 


Flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood 
You are inside me ‘til I die 
My son 
A sin, a burden and a lie 
A cross, a penance, and a suffering 

My life’s a desert, starved of love 
Where God alone hears the oppressed 
My son 
I tell the rosary and confess 
Blind to all hope, expecting nothing 


You’re my last winter sun and fire 
Always in so much pain, so weak 
My son 
And yet the women that you seek 
Will prostitute your life with evil 

Your Paris is infernal mire 
In mud it’s hard to stay afloat 
My son 
When you get drunk and act the goat 
You are consorting with the devil 

All lyrics and all texts are copyright Dee Shipman and no unauthorised use will be permitted
©  2010