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 am starry-eyed and vaguely discontented,
Like a nightengale without a song to sing.
Oh, 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.
Hearing words that I have yet to hear
From a guy I'm yet to meet.
I am 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.