The groundhog peeps it's wee head from the hole and says the same thing:
Poetry is dying. Get off my lawn.
Snore.
I'm convinced -- over the heads of Newsweek I'm sure, since they can't understand how the first Internet president "happened" (conjecture on my part) -- that reader's habits are now changing faster than survey goons can invent silly questions. Moreover, in an industry where bleeding leads, it's good business sense to declare deaths of genres each year.
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