Harry Nilsson Follow

In worn out shoes, with silver hair, a ragged shirt
And baggy pants, the old soft shoe, jump so high
Jump so high, then he'd lightly touch down

I met him in a cell in New Orleans, 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 the name, 'Bojangles' and he danced a lick
Across the cell, grabbed his pants, a better stance
And wow, he jumped up high, clicked his heels, he let go a laugh
Let go a laugh, shook back his clothes all around

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

He danced with those at minstrel shows and county fairs
Throughout the South, he spoke with tears of fifteen years
Of how his dog and him, had traveled about, his dog up and died
He up and died, after twenty years he still grieves

He said, "I dance now and every chance at honky-tonks for drinks and tips
But most of time I spend behind these country 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 dance"

In worn out shoes, with silver hair, a ragged shirt
And baggy pants, the old soft shoe, jump so high