A little rain fell on the Patriots Place parade in Foxboro in December.
The Patriots buzz-saw ran into a woody knot.
As in the song, the little San Francisco cable-car went halfway to the stars, but went all the way to Tom Brady's ability to pull a rabbit out of a hat. It went far enough to knock Tom Brady out of the cable car driver's seat.
The little cable car turned into the Little Engine who could. The Foxboro team of destiny was derailed by something coming round the mountain-and it stomped on Brady's grapes of wrath.
The Patriots met the enemy, and he had tattoos on both arms.
Macbeth's Birnim Wood has come to the castle gates. And only someone not of woman born has beaten the Patriots. All that boil and bubble gave the Patriots toil and trouble.
Patriot fans started looking for those nasty old trio of weird sisters who predicted that Banquo Welker would not be a king and, instead, hailed the Thane of Brady.
Bill Belichick ran up and down the sidelines in the rain and was heard muttering, "Out, out, damn spot." Instead, it was the brief candle that went out, out.
King Duncan was murdered in his host's bed, and Gronk was asleep outside the door with a cup of his sponsor, Dunkin Donuts, coffee.
The game seemed to creep in its own petty pace, and the Patriot players each had a role on the national stage. Worse yet, all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death.
The Patriots were but a walking shadow. Poor players and poor plays that strut and fret for a couple of hours on national television were suddenly heard no more.
This was a game, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
When everyone expected Tom Brady to give another performance worthy of Hamlet, he turned instead into the Donkey from a Midsummer Night's worst nightmare.
Alas, poor Yorick, Brady knew him well once long ago.