(1945) Richard Rodgers, Oscar Hammerstein II



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.