The things I used to like, I dont like any more,
I want a lot of other things Ive never had before,
Its just like my mamma says, I sit around and mourn
Pretending that I am so wonderful and knowing Im adored
Im as restless as a willow in a windstorm,
Im as jumpy as a puppet on a string,
Id say that I had spring fever,
But I know it isnt spring.
Im as starry eyed and gravely discontented,
Like a nightingale without a song to sing.
Oh, why should I have spring fever,
When it isnt 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 Ive yet to meet.
Im as busy as a spider spinning daydreams,
Im as giddy as a baby on a swing,
I havent 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.