"Fie upon thee, how black thou art!" said the kettle to the saucepan.
The pot upbraids the kettle that it is black.
A watched kettle never boils.
The pot calls the kettle black.
The pot called the kettle 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.
My daughter-in-law tucked up her sleeves, and upset the kettle into the fire.
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.
