Turning to the crowd, V. Mayakovsky is trying to explain why he carries his soul on a platter for dinner for the past years. Flowing an unnecessary tear from the unshaven cheeks of the squares, he feels himself to be the last poet. He is ready to open to people their new souls - in simple words like lowing.
V. Mayakovsky participates in a street festival of the poor. They bring him food: iron herring from a sign, a huge golden roll, folds of yellow velvet. The poet asks to darn his soul and is going to dance in front of the audience. A man without an ear, a man without a head and others are looking at him. A thousand-year-old old man with cats urges those gathered to stroke dry and black cats in order to pour electric flashes into wires and stir up the world. The old man considers things to be enemies of people and argues with a person with a stretched linden, who believes that things have a different soul and they need to be loved. V. Mayakovsky, who joined the conversation, says that all people are only bells on God’s cap.
An ordinary young man is trying to warn the audience from rash actions. He talks about many useful activities: he himself came up with a machine for chopping cutlets, and his acquaintance has been working on a trap for catching fleas for twenty-five years.Feeling mounting anxiety, an ordinary young man begs people not to pour blood.
But thousands of legs hit the stretched belly of the square. The audience wants to erect a monument to red meat on the black granite of sin and vice, but they soon forget about their intention. A man without an eye and a leg screams that the old woman gave birth to a huge crooked revolt and all things rushed to throw off the rags of their worn names.
The crowd declares V. Mayakovsky his prince. Women with knots bow to him. They bring the poet their tears, tears and tears, offering to use them as beautiful buckles for shoes.
The 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 came to life, began to grow, to rage. The man hanged himself. And while he was hanging, factories with fleshy levers of slapping lips began to make millions of kisses. Kisses run to the poet, each of them brings a tear.
V. Mayakovsky is trying 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 bestial faiths. He feels blessed, who gave his thoughts inhuman scope. Sometimes it seems to him that he is a Dutch cock or a king of Pskov. And sometimes he most of all likes his own surname - Vladimir Mayakovsky.
