To summer, or not to summer? That is the question,
When verbing a noun is a class-based confession.
It’s not just a trip, it’s a seasonal flex,
A verb where the subtext is not so complex.
They flee from the city, all hot and obscene,
To beaches where rosé flows crisp and pristine.
They grab all their baggage, emotional too,
And run to a place with a much better view.
They summer in places that whisper old money,
Where lobster rolls reign and the jokes aren't funny.
They summer "out east," and won't name the locale,
But it rhymes with "shmamptons" and feels so royale.
They summer on the Cape and on islands afar,
Where Teslas are plentiful and yachts set the bar.
The Vineyard, my friend, is not filled with grapes,
It's stocked full of brunches and seersucker drapes.
In Nantucket they summer, in whites and in blues,
Discussing the markets and whispering clues.
They summer with gusto, with yacht-clubber flair,
While claiming they summered so humbly, they swear.
They don't just vacation, how gauche, how absurd!
They summer, you peasant, it's more than a word.
Now polish your sandals and straighten your stride,
The season is calling, so summer with pride.