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.