I'm as restless as a willow in a windstorm, 
I'm as jumpy as 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
O why should I have spring fever, 
when it isn't even spring

I keep wishing I were someone else, 
walking down a strange new street
And hearing words that I've never heard 
from a girl I've yet to meet
I'm as busy as spider spinning daydreams, 
spinning 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.