It Might as Well Be Spring

The things I used to like, I don’t like any more
I like a lot of other things I never liked before
It’s just like my mamma said, I sit around and mope
Thinking I am 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 have spring fever
But I know it isn’t spring
I’m starry eyed and vaguely discontented
Like a nightingale without a song to sing
How could I have spring fever
When I know it isn’t spring?
I keep wishing I were somewhere else
Walking down a crowded street
Hearing words I never heard before
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, might as well be
It might as well be spring