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.