| Well now, the barnyard is busy, in a regular tizzy | 
| And the obvious reason is because of the season | 
| Ma Nature’s lyrical with her yearly miracle | 
| Spring, spring, spring | 
| All the henfolk are hatchin', while their menfolk are scratchin' | 
| To ensure the survival of each brand new arrival | 
| Each nest is twittering, they’re all babysittering | 
| Spring, spring, spring | 
| Why, it’s a beehive of budding son and daughter life | 
| Every family has plans in view | 
| Even down in the brook, the underwater life | 
| Is forever blowin' bubbles too | 
| Little skylarks are larking, see them all double-parking | 
| Cuddled up, playin’possum, they’re behind ev’ry blossom | 
| Even the bubble-ink is merrily wobble-ink | 
| Spring, spring, spring | 
| In his hole, though the gopher seems a bit of a loafer | 
| The industrious beaver puts it down to spring fever | 
| While there’s no antelope who feels that he can’t elope | 
| Spring, spring, spring | 
| Each cocoon has a tenant, so they hung out a pennant | 
| Don’t disturb please, keep waiting, we’re evacuating | 
| This home’s my mama’s isle, soon have my own domicile | 
| Spring, spring, spring | 
| Even out in Australia, the kangaroos | 
| Lay off butter fat and all French fries | 
| If their offspring are large, it might be dan-ga-roos | 
| Why, they’ve just got to keep them pocket-size | 
| Even though, to detract, spring is more like a habit | 
| Not withstanding, the fact is they indulge in the practice | 
| Why, each day is Mother’s Day the next day some other’s day | 
| Spring, spring, spring | 
| To itself, each amoeba softly glows | 
| While the proud little termite fills his life as a worm might | 
| Old papa dragonfly is makin' his wagon fly | 
| It’s spring, spring, spring | 
| And from his eerie, the eagle with his eagle eye | 
| Gazes down across his eagle beak | 
| And a-fixing his lady with a legal eye | 
| Screams, «Suppose we set the date this week» | 
| Ah, yes siree, spring discloses, if it’s all one supposes | 
| Wagging tails, rubbing noses, but it’s no bed of roses | 
| And if for the stork you pine, consider the porcupine | 
| Who longs to cling keeping comp’ny is tricky, it can get pretty sticky | 
| In the spring, spring, spring |