If, the poem written by Kipling for the modern El Gato Malos of the world

In reference to All suppression of debate is suppression of science which I just posted.  El Gato Malo alludes indirectly to Rudyard Kipling's If.  I had not particularly considered the poem, which I know well, in the context of Covid by El Gato Malo is correct.  Kipling could have written it for this moment.  

The first stanza is especially apropos given the constant and vigorous repression of freedoms over the past three years in order to enforce expert orthodoxies which were simply, and now obviously, made up fictions.  El Gato Malo was one of the few who followed the science, examined the data, debated at large and reached conclusions which were held to be maliciously wrong and which are now acknowledged as having been correct.

If— 

by Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you   

    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,   

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

    But make allowance for their doubting too;   

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

    Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,

Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,

    And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;   

    If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;   

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

    And treat those two impostors just the same;   

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken

    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

    And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

    And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

    And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

    To serve your turn long after they are gone,   

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

    Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,   

    Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

    If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

    With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,   

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,   

    And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!