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 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.