4 OCTOBER 1986, Page 30

Sunday Rodeo

This, then, is the meat of the cowboy cult, Herefords. I edge gingerly past raised Heads, their quick curiosity annulled At once by the imperative to feed.

Generations like this, watered and grazed, Have shaped themselves to fit a human need.

Why do they do it? Cosseted for gain, Their blue genes, tailored to a pedigree, Would shame half Debrett and were they to feign A charge would soil my mongrel escutcheon; Yet no maverick messiah, escapee From the abattoir's final solution, Could sire a thought it could communicate. Dumb, instinctive beasts, they don't have to lie Before their last sweated fear about fate, While I ruminate an eschatology That no chewing the cud can verify, And, near the gate now, swagger gingerly.

R. N. Allan