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 slapped his leg a step.
Mr. Bojangles, Mr. Bojangles, dance!
He said the name, Bojangles, and he danced a lick all across the cell,
He grabbed his pants for a better stance, oh, he jumped so high and clicked up his heels.
He let go a laugh, he let go a 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 fifteen years of how his dog and him just traveled all about.
His dog up and died, he up and died, and after twenty 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 of the time I spend behind these county bars 'cause I drinks a bit."
He shook his head and then he shook his head, I heard someone ask him, "Please,
Mr. Bojangles, Mr. Bojangles, dance!
Dance!
Mr. Bojangles, dance!"