There’s a mystery in that locked room.
Help me, I’m locked in!
Help me, I’m locked out!
My rifle is locked and loaded.
Call the locksmith, the lock is jammed. Again.
I can’t get into the car, the lock is frozen.
Hey, I’ve got a lock on it! (I’ve put in my bid and I’m sure I’ll win … )
Locks and keys and why would anyone want to break in here? We don’t own anything worth stealing?
It takes forever to get down the canal. You have to wait for each of the locks to fill and open.
There’s a freedom that comes with poverty. If you’re an up and coming burglar or thief, you’ll have to go where the real money is. You don’t want our rags, tatters, and memorabilia. Even the art, the most valuable of our possessions is only worth something to a collector. Pretty hard to fence relatively unknown artists …
I saved a lock of his baby hair. I keep it in a gold locket.
Bagels and lox, anyone?
I’m not bothering to lock the computers. No one uses them but us.
“Put a lock on it! I’m tired of hearing you run your mouth,” she said, storming out of the room.
“That’s a lock!” shouted the director. “Let’s go home, folks.”