1199. IT MIGHT AS WELL BE SPRING 1945 |
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
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 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.
IT MIGHT AS WELL BE SPRING.
