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
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 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 wind

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