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 wind storm 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 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 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 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.