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 starryeyed 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 girl 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 wing
But I feel so gay, in a melancholy way
That it might as well be Spring
It might as well be Spring