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