Mayakovsky on a journey to Paris, its ladies and the Place de l'Étoile

Ticket
click.
Cheek
smack.
A whistle
and off we dashed to where,
like herrings
in the net of stockings,
swim
the globe-trotting ladies.
Today he arrives
an ugly brute of a fellow,
and tomorrow
just try to recognise him:
in one go
both the city and the mouth
are dressed up
in lipstick,
the cosmetics of lights.
The merry ones
are drawn to this very distance.
To pine in Paris?
Hardly!
In Paris
even the square
is an Étoile,
and the stars
are all out-and-out étoiles.

Literal translation