The things I used to like I don’t like any more,
I want a lot of other things I’ve never had before.
It’s just like mother says, I “sit around and mope”
Pretending I am wonderful and knowing I’m a dope.

I’m as restless as a willow in a windstorm,
I’m as jumpy as a 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.
Oh, why should I have spring fever
When it isn’t even spring?

I keep wishing I were somewhere else,
Walking down a strange new street,
Hearing words that I have never heard
From a man I’ve yet to meet.

I’m as busy as a spider spinning day dreams,
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!