Turning to the crowd, V. Mayakovsky tries to explain why he carries his soul on a platter for dinner going years. Sticking unnecessary tears from the unshaven cheeks of the squares, he feels himself to be the last poet. He is ready to reveal to people their new souls – simple words, like mooing.
V. Mayakovsky participates in a street festival of beggars. They bring food to him: iron herring with signs, a huge golden roll, folds of yellow velvet. The poet asks to darn his soul and is going to dance before the gathered. He is looked at by a man without an ear, a man without a head, and others. A thousand-year-old old man with cats urges the assembled to iron dry and black cats to pour electric flares into the wires and stir the world. The old man considers things enemies of people
An ordinary young man tries to warn those gathered from ill-considered actions. He talks about a lot of useful lessons: he himself came up with a machine for cutting cutlets, and his friend worked for twenty-five years on a trap for catching fleas. Feeling growing alarm, an ordinary young man begs people not to pour blood.
But thousands of feet hit the stretched belly square. The gathered want to establish a monument to red meat on the black granite of sin and vice, but soon forget about their intention. A man without an eye and legs screams that the old woman gave birth to a huge twisted mutiny and all things rushed to throw off the rags of worn names.
The crowd declares Mayakovsky as their prince. Women with knots bow to him. They bring the poet their tears, tears and tears, suggesting to use them as beautiful buckles for shoes.
A big and dirty man was given two kisses. He did not know what to do with them – they could not be used instead of galoshes, and the man threw unnecessary kisses. And suddenly they revived, began to grow, rage. The man hanged himself. And while he was hanging, the
V. Mayakovsky tries to explain to the crowd how hard it is for him to live with pain. But the crowd demands that he carry the mountain of collected tears to his God. Finally, the poet promises to throw these tears to the dark God of thunderstorms at the source of animal faiths. He feels blessed, who gave thoughts a superhuman space. Sometimes it seems to him that he is a Dutch cock or a Pskov king. And sometimes he most like his own name – Vladimir Mayakovsky.