My daughter-in-law tucked up her sleeves, and upset the kettle into the fire.
A watched kettle never boils.
The pot calls the kettle black.
The pot called the kettle black.
"Fie upon thee, how black thou art!" said the kettle to the saucepan.
The pot upbraids the kettle that it is black.
The kettle smuts the frying-pan.
Next thing I know, my kettle is running down the road. I tried to chase him down, he was just too fast.
Language is a cracked kettle on which we beat out tunes for bears to dance to, while all the time we long to move the stars to pity.
