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 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 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
