It Might As Well Be Spring

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 moan

Pretending that I am wonderful and knowing I'm a dope

I'm as restless as a willow in a wind storm

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 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.