A bookkeeper's wail

Dear Mago,
It’s been a while since you last made an entry in your diary. Believe me, I have no intention of “guilt tripping” you. Rather, all I mean to say is: I miss you, and oh how I miss a dialogue with someone who cares not only about me, but about what’s going on in the world. You are a reminder – in your as absence perhaps more than in your presence – of my greatest longing.
Believe me, I’m sympathetic to any problems you have in finding time to keep up on the world and reflect. Having worked overtime myself this Friday evening, I'm pooped. Fortunately, tonight I also have time to look through your poetry to give me some solace. I’m sure that many of us who feel overworked and inadequate can relate to your rhyming wail from the 1940s:

A Bookkeeper's Wail

To find that damn dime
I would stand on my head
Until weary and worn
And my face very red
I would scale Mount McKinley
And would swim Golden Gate
I'd paint the town red
Until scandalously late
I'd pick someone's pocket
With such expert technique
Old Fagan would look
Like an amateur sneak
I'd even go begging
Palm up on skid row
And quaverlingly whisper
"Kind brother some dough"
I'd face those stern auditors
Bold as could be
Sans butterfly stomach
Or shivering knee
But to "lose face" with Christopher
I simply can't do
Nor honestly think that you'd want me to
Be met at the door
And be forced to say "nay"
When eagerly asked
"Did you balance today"
So please do not fugit
So rapidly time
With a little more leeway
I'll find the damn dime.

With love from us both this Friday night