|
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 my mamma says, I sit around and mourn |
|
Pretending that I am so wonderful and knowing, I'm adored |
|
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 as starry eyed and gravely 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 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 or a bluebird on the wing |
|
But I feel so gay in a melancholy way |
|
That it might as well be spring |
|
It might as well be, might as well be |
|
It might as well be spring |
