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 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've 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