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 would do the old soft shoe.
He could jump so high, jump so high,
and then he’d lightly touch down.

I met him in a cell in New Orleans, I was,
I was down and out.
He looked to me to be the very eyes of age
as he spoke right out,
talked of life, talked of life,
laughed, slapped his leg and stepped.

He said his name was “Bojangles”
and he danced a lick
right across the cell.
He grabbed his pants,
took a bitter stance,
jumped up high.
That’s when he
clicked his heels.
Then he let go a laugh,
lord, he’d let go a laugh,
shook back his clothes all around.

That was Mr. Bojangles.
Mr. Bojangles.
Mr. Bojangles.
Lord, he could dance.

He told me of the times
he worked with minstrel shows,
travelling around The South.
He spoke with tears
of fifteen years
how his dog and he,
they used to travel all about.
But his dog up and died,
dog up and died,
and after twenty years he still grieved.

He said “I dance now and every chance honkey-tonks,
for my drinks and tips.
But most of the time
I spend behind these country bars,
you see son, I drinks a bit.”

Then he shook his head.
Lord, when he shook his head,
I could swear I heard someone
say please, please, please.

That’s Mr. Bojangles.
Mr. Bojangles.
Mr. Bojangles.
Come back and dance a dance,
please dance,
come on and dance now.

A-Mr. Bojangles,
Mr. Bojangles,
Mr. Bojangles,
dance.

Come back and dance,
Mr. Bojangles.

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