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 mother says, I sit around and moan
pretending that I am wonderful and knowing i'm a dope
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 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