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

Mr. Bojangles,
Mr. 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, he talked of life, laughed and snapped his legs still.

Mr. Bojangles,
Mr. Bojangles,
Dance.

He said the name's Bojangles and he danced a lick all across the cell.
He grabbed his pants for a better stance, oh 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,
Dance. Yeah, Dance!

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

Mr. Bojangles,
Mr. Bojangles,
Dance.

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

Mr. Bojangles,
Mr. Bojangles,
Dance. Dance.
Mr. Bojangles, dance.