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Beethoven was laying on his desk, looking depressed enough to write a ten-page suicide note.

Bach went up to him. “Are you okay, Beethoven? You … don’t look very good at the moment,”

Beethoven sighed, “It’s nothing.”

“It doesn’t look like nothing,”

“You know all those cakes I ate last week, with the soft icing.”

“You’ve used up all your money haven’t you. How do you even do it- don’t you get income from your compositions?”

“Not until Tuesday, and I can’t afford cake until then.” It had backfired- now he looked like he could write an eleven-page suicide note.