[Intro] [Style: cyber-runway vogue house] [Mood: elegant, nasty] (whisper) Haute couture… pas touche. Click—click. Neon on my skin. Tonight the runway bites back. [Verse 1] [Style: cyber-runway vogue house] [Mood: cold, expensive] I don’t walk in— I sync in, high voltage under satin. You mistake shine for invitation, I call that a bad habit. French seam rules: no loose ends, no access without permission. I don’t do “maybe” in my lace— I do precision. You want me soft? Buy a dream. You want me close? Learn restraint. My beauty isn’t your doorway— it’s a gate. [Pre-Chorus] [Style: dark pop build] [Mood: predatory] Regarde… ne touche pas. Say it like a prayer. One step wrong and the room goes quiet— like it’s waiting for my glare. [Chorus] [Style: vogue house drop] [Mood: triumphant menace] Haute couture — pas touche. Look with your eyes, not your luck. Haute couture — pas touche. Try to reach and you’ll learn what’s up. (chant) Regarde—ne touche pas! If you pull, it cuts. If you cross, it shuts. Haute couture — say it right: “Oh shit… he’s not playing tonight.” [Verse 2] [Style: cyber-runway vogue house] [Mood: bratty, lethal] Latex gloss, chrome grin, I make mercy look outdated. Your apology’s off-the-rack— mine are custom, never traded. You love the art, hate the artist, love the heat, fear the flame. You wanted me framed and quiet— I rewrote the frame. Now your “u up?” dies unread, my silence is a headline. I don’t haunt you— I upgrade. You’re last-gen, I’m the pipeline. [Breakdown] [Style: stripped vogue] [Mood: intimate threat] Listen— that bass is my patience. It’s running out. (whisper) Je décide. Not you. Not them. Not the crowd. [Build] [Style: club build] [Mood: inevitable] I took your “almost” and tailored it tight. Turned your doubt into spotlight. If you want access— bring respect. If you want softness— goodnight. [Drop] [Style: ballroom callouts] [Mood: ruthless, ecstatic] Hands! Face! Body! Walk! Cut—clean—no fray—no fault. Haute! Couture! Pas! Touche! I don’t play— I do law. [Bridge] [Style: theatrical dark pop] [Mood: verdict] Reste là— on mesure ta vérité. You wanted my glow with fingerprints. You wanted my body with no consequence. So I taught you the difference: want isn’t fate. (whisper) Pas touche. (belt) NO MORE FITTINGS FOR YOUR FANTASY— NO MORE “SORRY,” NO MORE “MAYBE.” I’M THE NEEDLE, I’M THE PRESSURE, I’M THE CUT THAT MAKES IT LEGEND— HAUTE COUTURE… AND I DON’T BEND. [Final Chorus] [Style: vogue house finale] [Mood: victorious, vicious] Haute couture — pas touche. Look with your eyes, not your luck. Haute couture — pas touche. Reach again and I’ll raise the cost. (chant) Regarde—ne touche pas! “Oh shit… he’s not playing around anymore…” Regarde—ne touche pas! [Outro] [Style: glossy minimal] [Mood: final] Click—click. Fin.
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