It Might As Well Be Spring

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 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.