It Might as Well Be Spring

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 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.