Our Jasmin wrote a piece about things going wrong like that fellow Murphy said in 1949.
But he forgot to mention that it started way way back, long before Murphy's wisdom about the jinx...

My guitar busted its last string
trying to accompany my song
about a lousy unlucky cowboy
with under his legs a dead horse,
which you could whip the hell
but that equine wouldn’t move;
then the rain came and the fire
went off so I could get real cold
because the little tent I had set
wind came and there she blows
and to be a little more miserable
from the south comes a storm
with thunder, plenty lightning,
and here comes the stampede
of in fear thousand crazy cows
going over all of my belongings
and the saguaro where I stood,
telling me with thousand voices
in each and every of its thorns
that I wasn’t in no way welcome
and better face the cattle’s wave
“get out of me you silly cowboy!”

The morning came, painfully,
taking one by one from me off
those four inches saguaro curses
that they insist in calling thorns,
when I hear hopefully help coming,
a party of horses like a posse
to ask for a hand to collect
the cattle that were all around,
but to my dismay they weren’t
the expected ones that I thought,
but a party of Indians on mustangs
for the look of it looking for war,
painted all over you won’t believe
mostly, like my mother in law does,
bending over grabbed my trusted rifle
half way going into the ground
after a zillion of dumb leather wallets
got all over it with their dirty hooves,
and pointed it at the arriving party
defend to the last man I was my post,
but the damn rifle was pointing
to nowhere, bend like hell as it was.

The Indians, surprised in their faces,
at thirty feet from me they make stop
and after taking a look at me they began
laughing until one felt from his horse,
and turning around they left me there
like I wasn’t to fight of any worth,
after their jocular offensive departure
despondency took of my self good hold
as the beginning day was promising
more pain, sweat and plenty of sorrow
that instead of kicking the dumb saguaro
went go finding me, to sit, a good rock,
and let the sun to fry my brains,if any,
as I began composing of a sad cowboy;
about a lonely one, most unfortunate
which will be the favorite song
in all campfires for years to come,
he wrestling bad weather with a storm
and single handled a big stampede
in those plains he hold his ground,
and even he, with a broken rifle
a indians war party, valiantly fought.

And that my friends is how the west,
despite the cowboy’s blues, was won.