The Outlook wasn't brilliant for the Foxboro nine that day:
The score stood 24 to 10, with but one quarter left to play.
A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, if only Brady could get but a whack at that—
We'd put up even money, now, with Brady at the bat.
But Wes Welker didn't play, nor would it seem, did Randy Moss,
And Edelman gave it a valiant try to help that Pats overcome their might loss.
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Brady getting to the bat.
But Flacco couldn't throw the ball, to the wonderment of all,
And the defense finally stopped Ray Rice, which forced the Ravens to punt the ball
And when the dust had lifted, and the men saw what had occurred,
There was Edelman at the 50, a solid punt return to be assured.
Then from 40,000 throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Brady, mighty Brady, was advancing to the bat.
There was ease in Brady's manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Brady's bearing and a smile on Brady's face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Tom Terrific at the bat.
Eighty-thousand eyes were on him as he surveyed the defense at the line;
forty-thousand tongues applauded when he audibled the call
The earlier interception and the strip sack from before, would all but be forgotten with a Brady-to-Moss TD Score;
The sneer is gone from Brady's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;
He barks with cruel violence, the snap count as we wait.
And now the center holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Brady's blow.
Oh, somewhere in this favored land, the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere children are laughing, as they give their ice cream another lick;
But there is no joy in Foxboro—mighty Brady has thrown another pick.