| I’m as restless as a willow in a windstorm
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| I’m as jumpy as a puppet on a string
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| I’d say that I had spring fever
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| But I know it isn’t spring
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| I’m as starry eyed and gravely discontented
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| Like a nightingale without a song to sing
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| Oh, why should I have spring fever
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| When it isn’t even spring?
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| I keep wishing I were somewhere else
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| Walking down a strange new street
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| Hearing words I have never never heard
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| From a man I’ve yet to meet
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| I’m as busy as a spider spinning daydreams
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| I’m as giddy as a baby on a swing
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| I haven’t seen a crocus or a rosebud
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| Or a robin or a bluebird on the wing
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| But I feel so gay in a melancholy way
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| That it might as well be spring
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| It might as well be, might as well be
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| It might as well be spring |