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, and then he'd lightly touch down.
I met him in a cell in New Orleans I was; but I was down and out. He looked to me to be the eyes of age as he spoke right out. He talked of life, that man talked of life, laughed and snapped his legs still.
He said his name was Bojangles and he danced a lick right 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.
That was Mister Bojangles, Mister Bojangles, Mister Bojangles. He could dance!
He told me of a times he worked with Minstrel shows, travelling around the south, Spoke with tears for fifteen years how his dog and him they used to travel about But his dog up and died. Dog up and died, and after twenty years he still grieves
He said, "I dance now at every chance in honky tonks for my drinks and tips. But most of the time I spend behind these county bars you see son I drinks a bit." Then he shook his head. Oh Lord when he shook his head, I could swear I heard someone say please, please
Mister Bojangles, Mister Bojangles Mister Bojangles, come back and dance. And dance. And dance. Please dance.