I'm as restless as a willow in a windstormI'm as jumpy as a puppet on a
stringI'd say that I had Spring feverBut I know it isn't
SpringI am starry eyed and vaguely discontentedLike a nightingale
without a song to singOh why should I have Spring feverWhen it isn't
even SpringI keep wishing I were somewhere elseWalking down a
strange new streetHearing words that I have never heard>From a girl
I've yet to meetI'm as busy as a spider spinning daydreamsI'm as
giddy as a baby on a swingI haven't seen a crocus or a rosebud or a robin
on the wingBut I feel so gay in a melancholy wayThat it might as well
be SpringIt might as well be Spring