Untitled Sonnet

There is a fly stuck
in my tape recorder.
I think I'll get it out
with my lit cigarette,
so then I can play
my classical music,
like Vivaldi, Chopin,
and even Ravel.

There is already smoke
coming out of the deck,
yet the little bugger
won't budge.  
It's buzzing
and humming angrily
in E minor its funeral
march.  I find delight
thinking of how many 
sisters Bach had.

It got away, flew out,
vanished in my blind spot.
Damn, my tape deck is broken,
lit on fire.  Licking my
burned index finger,
I’m cursing at the radio
playing top forty.
I'm glad Beethoven
was deaf.