Cabbage Country

So the place I live has been called cabbage country,
If that was true I guess it would smell kinda funky,
You've gotta be kidding me,
Unless you grow it in your garden it's cabbage free,
Yes we are surrounded by countryside,
Drive out of the city for 30 minutes at a rough guide,
There you'll find the Fens,
They're still in the dark ages they use quills as pens,
They have webbed feet or extra toes,
Still no cabbages they grow potatoes,
Where I live if you grew cabbages they'd probably get nicked,
And sold at a market for unknowing people to pick,
You can't leave anything outside here,
Chavs would nick it to get money for their beer,
That's if they aren't in line for their crisis loan,
Or in the chemist receiving their latest script for methadone,
We're apparently behind with the times,
No motorways just A and B roads with hilly climbs,
Maybe on the outskirts but not in the centre,
For driving round the city is a roundabout venture,
They're everywhere you bloody go,
Big ones small ones mini ones on show,
Not that I see the point in the mini roundabouts,
I drive over them with a little clout,
Not to mention the traffic lights here,
You can't go anywhere without the red light you fear,
Especially when you're running late,
The lights are always red something I friggin hate,
I've come to the conclusion though,
That I'm not a cabbage farmer but even so,
Please give this a whirl,
You can call me the cabbage patch girl!