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 moan
Pretending that I am wonderful and knowing I'm a dope
I'm as restless as a willow in a wind storm
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 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.
