I'm as restless as a willow in a windstorm, I'm as jumpy
as puppet on a string
I'd say that I had spring fever, but I know it isn't

spring
I am starry eyed and vaguely discontented, like a
nightingale without a song to sing

O why should I have spring fever, when it isn't even
spring


I keep wishing I were someone else, walking down a
strange new street
And hearing words that I've never heard from a girl I've

yet to meet
I'm as busy as spider spinning daydreams, spinning
spinning daydreams

I'm as giddy as a baby on a swing

I haven't seen a crocus or a rosebud, or a robin on the

wing
But I feel so gay in a melancholy way, that it might as
well be spring

It might as well be spring.