The things I used to like I don't like any more

I want a lot of other things I've never had before

It's just like mother says I sit around and mourn

Pretending I am wonderful and knowing I'm adored

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'm as starry eyed and gravely 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 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

It might as well be spring