It Might As Well Be Spring sing and play along

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 starryeyed 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 day dreams,

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.