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 my mamma says, I sit around and mourn

Pretending that I am so 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 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 or a bluebird on the wing

But I feel so gay in a melancholy way

That it might as well be spring

It might as well be, might as well be

It might as well be spring