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The things I used to like, I don't like any more, |
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I want a lot of other things I've never had before, |
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It's just like my mamma says, I sit around and mourn |
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Pretending that I am so wonderful and knowing I'm adored |
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I'm as restless as a willow in a windstorm, |
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I'm as jumpy as a puppet on a string, |
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I'd say that I had spring fever, |
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But I know it isn't spring. |
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I'm as starry eyed and gravely discontented, |
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Like a nightingale without a song to sing. |
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Oh, why should I have spring fever, |
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When it isn't even spring? |
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I keep wishing I were somewhere else, |
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Walking down a strange new street, |
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Hearing words I have never never heard, |
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From a man I've yet to meet. |
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I'm as busy as a spider spinning daydreams, |
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I'm as giddy as a baby on a swing, |
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I haven't seen a crocus or a rosebud, |
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Or a robin or a bluebird on the wing, |
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But I feel so gay in a melancholy way, |
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That it might as well be spring, |
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It might as well be, might as well be, |
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It might as well be spring. |
