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Aziraphale cleared his throat.

“Welcome, everyone. Please take your seats. We will begin The First Annual Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death Heaven-Hell-Earth Poetry Slam! Thank you to Adam Young and to Jesus for brokering a truce between the warring parties, and for proposing this convivial event to mark a new beginning.”

“Since it is Valentine’s Day, the theme for tonight is chocolate. Chocolate is earthy, divine, and sinful. It is thus an appropriate–and delicious–element signifying our common ground. Participants will receive, courtesy of a joint Heaven-Hell miracle allowance, a form of chocolate referenced in their poem.”

“And now, all the way from Alpha Centauri, our first performer–former Supreme Archangel Gabriel.”

As the crowd in the bookshop murmured, Gabriel made his way to the mic. Aziraphale sat down in the front row, his seat having been saved (guarded) by Crowley.

“Thank you, former Supreme Archangel Aziraphale. In the spirit of cooperation amongst former enemies and frenemies,” Gabriel paused to emphasise the cleverness of this neologism, which he had recently learned, “I dedicate this poem to you.”

Remember when my brain was slow-mo
and I showed up naked and loco.
You helped me out
and didn’t shout,
just gave me a mug of hot cocoa!

Gabriel beamed at Aziraphale. Aziraphale smiled politely. Crowley scowled beside him. “My poem was for you too,” he muttered. A white mug, its handle shaped like wings and filled with steaming hot cocoa, appeared before Gabriel. He gallantly offered the mug to Beelzebub, who eyed it suspiciously. Gabriel transformed the mug color to black and Beelzebub accepted it with a lopsided smirk.

Next up was Furfur, who managed to glide smoothly to the mic even while never taking his eyes off Shax, draped resplendent in a crimson gown in the audience.

Chocolate fondue, lush and decadent, seducing me like a courtesan recumbent.
I’m helpless as you beguile me with your siren scent!
Into your fragrant lake, I dip pound cake, sponge cake, ladyfingers;
strawberries luscious and aromatic, lascivious and extravagant;
bananas firm yet pliant.
Neverending pool of bliss, I long to drown in your velvet depths.

Furfur maintained his eye contact with Shax and remained on stage for several seconds after the conclusion of the poem. The Duke of Hell smiled her approval, pointed teeth gleaming.

An intermission followed after a few additional readings (including Dagon on mole sauce and Brian on Neapolitan ice cream). As the break ended, Aziraphale cajoled Crowley into reciting his poem.

“It’s private,” protested Crowley.

“Mine is private as well. But we don’t have to live like that anymore! We don’t have to keep everything a secret.”

“Errmmm, fine,” Crowley relented. He slinked up to the mic.

You make exquisite chocolate mousse,
legendary to gods like Zeus.
But most of all
I am enthralled
by how it fills out your round caboose.

“Really, Crowley,” Aziraphale tutted, pretending to be scandalised. A martini glass of chilled chocolate mousse popped up at his side. He looked up at the demon through his eyelashes. “Thank you.”

At the conclusion of the last poem (Muriel on the bubbly sensations of Aeros), Aziraphale stepped up to the mic once more.

“I trust you have enjoyed this night of literary confections. Please indulge me in one final morsel, dedicated to enjoyment across party lines.”

You’re the most bitter drink
and the most divine.
I crave you more than
the rarest red wine.

You’re a wiley serpent,
a sardonic snake.
I’ll always want more of
your devil’s food cake.

But my most burning wish
is to glut your desire
for Cadbury Mini Eggs
‘til you’re about to expire.

The audience sat stunned for a moment before breaking into polite applause. Aziraphale sensed Crowley’s eyes widening behind his sunglasses.

“Good night!” he proclaimed. He sauntered over to the demon and allowed himself a smug smile. A large shopping bag full of Cadbury Mini Eggs materialised between them. Aziraphale gave a little wiggle. Crowley wasn’t the only one with a feeding fetish.