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 vaugely discontented

like a nightingale without a song to sing

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 that i have never heard

from a man i've yet to meet



i'm as busy as a spider spinning daydreams

i'm as gidddy as a baby on a swing

i haven't seen a crocus or a rosebud

or a robin on the wind



but i feel so gay

in a melancholy way

that it might as well be spring

it might as well be spring