I knew a man, Bojangles, and he danced for you
In worn out shoes —
Silver hair, a ragged shirt and baggy pants —
“The old soft shoe”.
He jumped so high, jumped so high,
Then he`d lightly touch down.

I met him in a cell in New Orleans, he 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.
He laughed, slapped his leg and stepped.

Mr. Bojangles,
Mr. Bojangles,
Mr. Bojangles, dance!

He said his name: “Bojangles”, — and he danced a lick
Across the cell.
He grabbed his pants, a better stance, and jumped so high,
Clicked his heels.
He let go a laugh, let go a laugh,
Shook back his clothes all around.

He danced for those in minstrel shows and county fairs
Throughout the south.
He spoke with tears of fifteen years, how his dog and he
Travelled about.
His dog up and died, he up and died.
After twenty years he still grieves.

Mr. Bojangles,
Mr. Bojangles,
Mr. Bojangles, dance!

He said: “I dance now at every chance in 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: “Please,

Mr. Bojangles,
Mr. Bojangles,
Mr. Bojangles, go on and dance!”