State Fair 1945: It Might As Well Be Spring

The things I used to like

I don't like anymore

I want a lot of other things

I've never had before.

It's just like mother says...

I sit around and mope.

Pretending I am wonderful.

And knowing I'm a dope.

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 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,

It might as well be spring.

In our air-conditioned, patent leather farmhouse,

On our ultra-modern, scientific farm,

We'll live in a stream-lined heaven,

And we'll waste no time on charm!

No geraniums to clutter our veranda,

Nor single little sentimental things,

No virginia creepers, nothing useless