I knew a man Bojangles and he'd dance for you
in worn out shoes.
Silver hair, and ragged shirt and baggy pants,
the old soft shoe.
He'd jump so high, he'd jump so high,
and then he'd lightly touch down.

I met him in a cell in New Orleans, I was down and out.
He looked to me to be the eyes of age
as the smoke ran out.
He talked of life,
he talked of life,
laughing clicked his heels and stepped.

He said his name Bojangles and he danced a lick
across the cell.
He grabbed his pants for a better stance,
and he jumped so high and he clicked up his heels.
He let go laugh, he let go laugh,
shook back his clothes all around.
Mr. Bojangles, Mr. Bojangles, Mr. Bojangles, Dance.

He danced for those at minstrel shows and county fairs
throughtout the south.
He spoke with tears of 15 years of how his dog and him just travelled about
His dog up and died,
he up and died,
and after 20 years he still grieves.

He said I dance now at every chance at honky-tonks
for drinks and tips.
But most of the time I spend behind these county bars,
cause I drinks 'bit
He shook his head, yes he shook his head,
I heard someone ask him, please,
Mr.Bojangles, Mr.Bojangles, Mr.Bojangles, dance.

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