Coasting Through a Field of Razor Blades and Discarded Syringes

Hold the flab of the box,
away we go over the blocks.
there is no way to stop,
thinking of the potential drop,
I'm glad I have clean socks,

the scratching sound,
of life liven unbound,
ready to put it on table,
to knowing its unstable,
questing for the pleasure ground,

The box breaks apart,
before you even start,
realizing the secret plan,
and becoming a godly hand,
thus the artificial heart