Introd: 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? Bridge: I keep wishing I were somewhere else, Walking down a strange new street, Hearing words that I have never heard From a girl I've yet to meet. I'm as busy as a spider spin - ning 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.