I knew a man Bojangles and he'd dance for you, in worn-out shoes.
With silver hair a ragged shirt and baggy pants, he did the old soft shoe.
He jumped so high, jumped so high, then he'd lightly touch down.
Mister Bojangles, Mister Bojangles, Mister Bojangles, dance.
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 he spoke right out.
He talked of life, talked of life, he laughed, slapped his leg a step.
He said his name, Bojangles, then he danced a lick, across the cell.
He grabbed his pants for better stance, oh he jumped up high. He clicked his heels,
he let go a laugh, let go a laugh, shook back his clothes all around.
Mister Bojangles, Mister Bojangles, Mister Bojangles, dance.
He danced for those at minstrel shows and county fairs throughout the south.
He spoke with tears of fifteen years how his dog and he traveled about.
His dog up and died, up and died,
After twenty years he still grieved.
He said, "I dance now at every chance in honky tonks for drinks and tips.
But most of the time I spend behind these county bars". He said, "I drinks a bit."
He shook his head and he shook his head,
I heard someone ask him please,
Mister Bojangles, Mister Bojangles, Mister Bojangles, dance.
Mister Bojangles, Mister Bojangles, Mister Bojangles, dance.