In rumpled disarray the blanket lies
The corner of the street his stage of choice
He beats his bongo with a rhythmic hand
His tattered clothes aren't noticed for the cup
That sits to hold the cheering strangers' coins

He draws them in, wide eyes of darkest brown
Tangled auburn curls frame sweet toddler's face
At times he startles all with fingers swift
The bongo tells the story loud and clear
Of trafficking a child who's forced to beg

Rapid the tempo resounds in night's cool breeze
His dirty nails are groomed by teeth so small
And face is streaked and smeared with child like care
No scented bath with toys to ease his woe

But from afar comes running one who knows
The sound of bongos left beneath a tree
Where once was played to thrill the ones who heard
Parents and children shared a love so dear

With hungry arms she gently holds her son
Heart chilled when he was gone from her embrace
None could deny that they were of one blood
The bongo call had reached her heart and soul
Her little lost boy..... found.... was taken home.

Bongo's beat or coins tinkling in a cup
May not be music made by street-side band