Mm… slow your roll, Romeo.
You can compliment the fit—just don’t get handsy with the hemline.
No-no, sweetheart.

He slid in grinnin’, talkin’ “winner,” tryna “spin” me like a record on repeat,
Said, “Girl, you glow,” I said, “You know… you can look, but you can’t reach.”
You got that “sir” in your smirk, tryna work your way past my velvet rope,
But my boundary’s not a bouncy house—no wristband? you don’t get hope.
He whispered, “Just a lil’ tap,” I laughed, “That’s cute—tap comes with terms,”
I’m not a keypad for your ego, I’m a queen with a “learn-then-earn.”
Your hands keep auditionin’—wishin’—fishin’ for permission they can’t find,
I keep it sweet, keep it sly, keep it crystal-clear: this is mine.
One step closer… (mm-mm!)
I step back—smoothly… (ha-ha!)
Say it polite—don’t play—do you hear me, sweetheart?

Don’t touch my hajima (ha-ji-ma… hands off, nice try—no)
Can’t tap this bojima (bo-ji-ma… you wish, good sir—no)
Don’t slide up gajima (ga-ji-ma… keep that space—no)
Don’t press deutchima (deu-chi-ma… wrong button—no)
Don’t “peek” at meokjima (meok-ji-ma… not that curious—no)
Don’t pour-pour jajima (ja-ji-ma… sip your own—no)
Don’t rush-rush utjima (ut-ji-ma… slow it down—no)
Don’t forget itjima (it-ji-ma… read my lips—no-no)

He said, “I’m gentle,” I said, “Sure—so are sharks in a suit at a seafood show.”
He tried the “accidental brush,” I said, “That’s not clumsy, that’s a clumsy ‘hello.’”
You’re doin’ that hover-hand hustle—muscle memory tryin’ to sneak a shortcut,
But I’m the referee with a smile—blow the whistle, call it: “Nope, back up.”

Quick-quip, slick-slip, wrist-flick—sir, you’re drippin’ with the ‘maybe’,
But I’m strict with the script—zip-zip—my “yes” ain’t on layaway, baby.
You want a “tour,” want “more,” want the “VIP” like it’s owed by design,
But access is earned with respect—and respect means you don’t cross the line.
So keep your charm in your palm, keep your gaze at a safe little altitude,
’Cause I’m flirty, not free—cute is cool, but consent is the attitude.


If you wanna “handle” something, handle your manners—practice that.
If you wanna “get a feel,” feel the rhythm—hands to yourself—imagine that.

A jukebox blinked “Tron Tunes” in the corner, low and smooth like a secret code,
He said, “So what’s the move?” I said, “Move back—then maybe we can talk slow.”

Don’t touch my hajima (ha-ji-ma… hands off, nice try—no)
Can’t tap this bojima (bo-ji-ma… you wish, good sir—no)
Don’t slide up gajima (ga-ji-ma… keep that space—no)
Don’t press deutchima (deu-chi-ma… wrong button—no)
Don’t “peek” at meokjima (meok-ji-ma… not that curious—no)
Don’t pour-pour jajima (ja-ji-ma… sip your own—no)
Don’t rush-rush utjima (ut-ji-ma… slow it down—no)
Don’t forget itjima (it-ji-ma… read my lips—no-no)

Compliments? yes. Confidence? cute.
Uninvited hands? hajima.