150 000 000 (One hundred and fifty million)

150 000 000 master this poem name.

Bullet - rhythm.

Rhyme - fire from building to building.

150 000 000 speak with my lips.

Rotational steps

in the cobblestone square

this edition is printed.

Who will ask the moon?
Who draws the sun to account -
why
repair nights and days!?
Who will call the land of a brilliant author?
So
and this
my
poems
nobody is a writer.
And she has one idea -
shine into the coming tomorrow.
In this very year,
on this day and time,
underground,
on the ground,
across the sky
and higher -
such appeared
posters,
flying,
posters:

"ALL!
ALL!
ALL!
all,
who can no longer!
Together
go out
and go!»

      (signatures):

LOCATION - CEREMONYMASTER.
HUNGER - MANAGER.
BAYONET.
BROWNING.
BOMB.

    (three signatures:          
secretaries).

Come on!
Idemidem!
it, it,
it, it, it, it,
it, it!
Fall down!
Vanka!

Kerenok

*

slip on the bast shoe!

Barefoot or something at a rally blurt out?
Missing Rossiichka!
Lost the poor!
We will find a new Russia.
All around the world!
Ide-e-e-e-e-m!
He sits gilded
over tea
with ptifur.
I will come to him
in cholera.
I will come to him
in typhus.
I will come to him,
I'll tell him:
“Wilson, breakwater,

Woodrow

*

,

want my blood bucket?
And you will see ... "
Let's get to the point

to Lloyd George

*

tell him:
"Listen,
Georges ... "
"You'll get to him."!
Before him the oceans.
Scary,
how so,
Russian oder him.
- Nothing!
Let's come on foot!
Idemidem!
Was a call,
from the woods
awake,
the power of animals and animals was climbing.
Squealing a pig pinned by an elephant.
Puppies lined up in a puppy row.
Unbearable human scream.
But the beasts
the soul rolled up.
(I will translate the animal roar to you,
if you do not know the language of the beast):

"Hear,
Wilson,
swam in fat!
People's fault -
give them punishment.
but we

did not sign the contract at Versailles

*

.

we,
the beast,
why are we starving?
Throw your animal grief!
It would be good to eat at least once more!
To India planted with planted herbs,
go to the American pastures!»

O-o-gu!
We are cramped in a blockade cell.
Forward, cars!
At a rally, motorcycles!
Little thing, straight!
Road to roads!
Road after road lined up in a row.
Listen, what the roads say.
What they say?

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Vladimir Mayakovsky
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