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?

And I keep wishing I were somewhere else
Walking on a strange new street
Hearing words I've never heard before
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
Oh and I haven't seen a rosebud or a crocus
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