(Walker)
Knew a man, Bojangles, and he danced for you in worn out shoes.
Silver hair, ragged shirt and baggy pants, the old soft shoe.
He jumped so high, he jumped so high, then he'd lightly touch down.
Mr. Bojangles, Mr. Bojangles, Mr. Bojangles, dance.
Met him in a cell, in New Orleans it 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 stared.
He said his name, Bojangles, and he danced a lick across the cell.
He grabbed his pants and took a stance and he jumped so high, he clicked his heels.
He let go a laugh, he let go a laugh, shook his clothes all around.
Mr. Bojangles, Mr. Bojangles, Mr. Bojangles, dance.
He danced for those at minstrel shows and county fairs throughout the South.
He spoke in tears of 15 years how his dog and him, they traveled about.
The dog up and died, he up and died. After 20 years he still grieves.
He said, I dance now at every chance and 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 now, he shook his head and I heard someone ask please,
Mr. Bojangles, Mr. Bojangles, hey, Mr. Bojangles, dance.
