Turkey Sonata

Bad news: Henrietta has invited that megalomaniac old bore Beethoven to our Thanksgiving celebration again.
"Why can't your sister take him for a change?" I ask, but she just gives me one of her cold stares by way of reply.
Dinner is always such a fiasco when Beethoven turns up. He always insists in sitting at the head of the table, and then all he does is grumpily tap on his place setting with his soup spoon.
"You're not at Vienna's illustrious Hofburg Palace now." I tell him, "So you can cut that beating-time with your silverware business right out." But he just pretends he can't hear me and keeps on doing it.
"Ludwig, can you pass the cranberry sauce, please?" I ask him politely, but still get no response. "Ludwig," I repeat in a louder tone of voice, "Can you please pass the cranberry sauce?"
Nothing. I might as well be talking to one of those cheap plastic busts of him that you can buy in discount gift shops.
Yet he's suddenly all ears and furiously nodding his pompous head with its ludicrously windswept shock of hair when Henrietta says; "Would you care for another helping of saurkraut stuffing, Ludwig?" Then he starts shoveling forkfuls of it into his mouth quicker than you can say "allegro," his right-hand moving back and forth like he's playing the trombone in fast motion.
"My aunt Agatha was a keen pianist" I explain to no-one in particular. "She could play Chopsticks with her feet."
But nobody's listening. They're all too busy fawning over Mr So-Called Musical Genius and wiping sweet potato puree off his chin. Oh well. That's the holidays for you, I suppose. I reckon I'll just leave them to it and escape around the corner to the Vivaldi's house and watch the football as usual.