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*Whistling* |
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I knew a man, |
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Bojangles, |
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And he'd dance for you |
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In worn out shoes, |
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With silver hair, |
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A ragged shirt, |
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And baggy pants. |
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He would do the old soft shoe. |
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He could jump so high, |
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Jump so high, |
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And then he'd lightly touch down. |
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I met him in a cell |
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In New Orleans, I was, |
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Down and out. |
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He looked to me to be the very eyes of age |
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As the smoke ran out, |
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Talked of life, lord that man talked of life, |
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Laughed, clicked his heels and stepped. |
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He said his name was "Bojangles" |
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And he danced a lick |
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Right across the cell. |
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He grabbed his pants, |
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Took a bitter stance, |
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Jumped up high. |
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That's when he |
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Clicked his heels. |
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Then he let go a laugh, |
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Lord, he'd let go a laugh, |
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Shook back his clothes all around. |
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Mr. Bojangles. |
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Mr. Bojangles. |
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Mr. Bojangles |
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Dance. |
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He told me of the times |
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He worked with minstrel shows, |
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Through out The South. |
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He spoke with tears |
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Of fifteen years |
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How his dog and he, |
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They travel all about. |
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The dog up and died, |
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Dog up and died, |
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And after twenty years he still greived. |
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He said "I dance |
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Now and every chance a |
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Honkey-tonk, |
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For drinks and tips. |
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But most of the time |
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I spend behind these country bars, |
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You see son, I drinks a bit." |
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He shook his head. |
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As he shook his head, |
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I heard someone |
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Say please, please, please. |
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A-Mr. Bojangles, |
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Mr. Bojangles, |
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Mr. Bojangles, |
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Dance. |
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*Whistle* |