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'm a 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
And hearing words that I have never heard
From a guy I've yeat to meet
I'm as busy as a spider spinning day dream
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
