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 have spring fever, But I know it isn't spring. I'm as starry eyed and vaguely discontented, Like a nightingale without a song to sing. Why should I have spring fever, When I know it isn't spring? I keep wishing I were somewhere else Walking down a strange new street, Hearing words that I have 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 on the wing, But I feel so gay in a melancholy way That it might as well be spring, Oh, that it might as well be spring. I keep wishing I were somewhere else Walking down a strange new street, Hearing words that I have 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 on the wing, But I feel so gay in a melancholy way That it might as well be spring. Oh, that it might as well be spring.