My good hand is called evil.

For kicks I sprint a mile or two,

For laughs I go for three,

I can cycle up to four, five, six,

But seven gets the best of me,

I could only drive for fourteen miles,

Before I turned around,

But the miles I can gently jog?

Well, hundreds, I have found.

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WHAT DID THAT MEAN? IT DIDN'T EVEN MEAN ANYTHING. WHAT OF IT? HUH?!