She didn't get poetry. She mostly knew a rhyme when she heard one, but only in a very obliging poem could she count feet -- and what kind of demonic poem had five-legged lines?
But Spike took certain savage joy in scrawling on and then shredding innocent scraps of paper. Finally she rescued one from his fingers and read it while he watched, stone, a hollowed-out punk Adonis.
Rhyme, meter. Yep, definitely a poem.
"So," she said, "this must make you an immortal poet."
A single startled chuckle; then he kissed her much more thoroughly than she thought the quip deserved.