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 my mama says, I sit around and mourn Pretending that I am so wonderful and knowing I'm adored
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'm as starry eyed and gravely 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 I have never 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 or a bluebird on the wing, But I feel so gay in a melancholy way, That it might as well be spring, It might as well be, might as well be, It might as well be spring.