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