I'm starry-eyed 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 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. And that's why I feel this way, And yet I know it's not spring today, But it might as well be spring.
I'm starry-eyed 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 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. And that's why I feel this way, And yet I know it's not spring today, But it might as well be spring.
